Chapter 1 - Lonely Road at Dusk

  The sun was little more than an ember on the horizon, casting skeletal shadows through the dense woodland that surrounded the narrow dirt road. The scent of damp earth and fallen leaves clung to the air, mingling with the distant chirp of crickets. Gregory Bearheart trudged forward, alone. His boots pressed into the mud, the weight of his greataxe a familiar presence on his back. The road stretched ahead, winding into the depths of the darkening forest.

  The mercenary had no particular destination—only the vague notion of heading south, away from the city, away from the life he had left behind. The work had dried up, or perhaps he had simply grown tired of answering to those who saw him as little more than a brute with an axe. Either way, the road was his only companion now.

  Then, the wind shifted.

  Silence fell over the woods. The usual rustling of branches, the distant hoot of an owl—gone. It was the kind of stillness that made a man’s instincts bristle, that sent a warning crawling up the back of his neck. Greg’s grip instinctively tightened on the strap of his axe.

  A rustling sound, followed by a stumbling shuffle. A figure emerged from the treeline ahead, staggering onto the path.

  Greg halted, his muscles tensing as he took in the sight before him. A man, his clothes torn and bloodstained, clutched at his side, moving with the lethargy of one on the edge of collapse. Even in the dim light, Greg could see the sheer exhaustion in the man’s form. He was barely holding himself upright.

  Greg didn’t lower his guard, but he didn’t raise his weapon either. Instead, he stepped forward cautiously. “What’s got you?” he asked, his voice gruff, though not unkind.

  The man lifted his head slightly, revealing sunken eyes and a face streaked with dirt and sweat. His voice came out as a weak rasp.

  “P-please... help me...”

  Then his gaze flickered behind him, terror widening his eyes. His breath hitched.

  “It’s still out there.”

  Before Greg could respond, a deep, guttural growl rolled through the trees. Branches snapped, heavy footfalls rustling the underbrush. The stillness of the forest shattered as something big moved in the darkness.

  Greg had mere moments to react.

  A cold, feral instinct settled over him. His blood surged as he embraced the familiar embrace of rage. Muscles coiled with power, his vision sharpened, and time seemed to slow. He reached out, grabbing the wounded man by the collar and yanking him aside, tossing him safely off the road as he turned to face the coming threat.

  The beast burst from the trees in a blur of dark fur and glowing yellow eyes. A massive dire wolf, but something was wrong—terribly wrong. Its flesh was torn in places, revealing sinew and bone beneath, patches of its hide sloughing off as it moved. The stench of decay clung to it like a death shroud.

  A zombified dire wolf.

  It snarled, lips curling back to expose jagged teeth as it lunged forward.

  Greg barely had time to react as the wolf struck, its massive jaws clamping down onto his shoulder. Pain shot through him, but his rage dulled the worst of it. He snarled in defiance, planting his feet and shoving the beast back before it could drag him down. His muscles burned with exertion, but he held firm, staring into the lifeless, hunger-mad eyes of his foe.

  His turn now.

  Greg raised his greataxe and swung with reckless abandon, the blade whistling through the air before slamming into undead flesh. The wolf howled as steel bit deep, nearly cleaving it in two. Yet, even as its rotting form reeled from the strike, it did not fall.

  The beast struck again, its teeth snapping at him, trying to drag him to the ground. This time, Greg saw it coming. He twisted away at the last moment, wrenching his axe free and bringing it down a second time with a mighty roar.

  The blade split bone, tearing through the dire wolf’s skull. With a final, rattling growl, the beast collapsed, twitching before going completely still.

  Silence returned.

  Greg exhaled heavily, his rage slowly ebbing as the battle-lust faded. His muscles ached, his wounds throbbed, but he had felt worse. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned to where the wounded man had fallen.

  “You still breathing?”

  The man groaned, shifting slightly. “Heh... barely.” His voice was hoarse, every word laced with pain. He glanced at the wolf’s unmoving corpse, shuddering. “You—saved me. Thought I was dead for sure.”

  Greg approached, kneeling beside him. The man was in bad shape, blood still seeping from his side.

  “What happened to you?” Greg asked, his tone gruff but not unkind.

  The man winced. “Caravan... was attacked. Bandits, I think... no, worse. They had... things.” His voice faltered. “Like that.” He gestured weakly toward the dire wolf’s corpse.

  Greg frowned. “Where?”

  The man swallowed. “A few miles back. I ran. Kept running until—” he gestured at himself, offering a weak chuckle that turned into a cough. “Well... you saw.”

  Greg exhaled sharply, glancing around. The forest was still quiet—too quiet. If there were more of these things out there, sticking around was a fool’s errand.

  He made a decision.

  “I don’t have much left in my pack,” Greg muttered, pulling it free and rummaging for supplies. “But let’s see if we can stop the bleeding.”

  The man—Trevor, as he soon introduced himself—nodded weakly as Greg tore some cloth into makeshift bandages. His hands were rough, not meant for tending wounds, but he did what he could. It wasn’t pretty, but it would hold for now.

  With Trevor stabilized, Greg took a quick scan of their surroundings. No immediate threats—yet. His gaze fell to the dire wolf’s corpse. Something about it still seemed... off. A glint of something metal caught his eye near its neck.

  A collar.

  Frowning, Greg bent down and yanked it free. The leather was rotted, the buckle corroded, but something was engraved on a rusted plate—a crude, claw-like insignia burned into the metal. He didn’t recognize it, but something about it unsettled him.

  Trevor saw it and blanched. “That... ain’t right.”

  Greg arched a brow. “You know this mark?”

  “Yeah.” Trevor swallowed. “Crimson Claw.”

  Greg’s expression darkened. He’d heard the name before. A band of cutthroats, slavers, and worse—rumored to dabble in dark arts. If they were raising undead beasts, things were worse than he thought.

  Trevor shifted. “Look... I don’t know what they were after, but there was a merchant—Vannis. He had something important. If he’s still alive, he’ll pay good coin for help.”

  Greg considered. He wasn’t much for playing hero, but a paying job was a paying job.

  Finally, he exhaled. “Alright,” he grunted. “Let’s go take a look.”

  And with that, the two men set off into the dark woods, unaware of the horrors yet to come.

  Chapter 2 - Fork in the Path

  The remnants of the caravan attack were bleak—a trail of wreckage left behind in the dirt, marking the brutal fate of those who hadn't escaped. Greg and Trevor moved carefully through the site, scanning the area for any signs of survivors, anything that could provide a clue to their next course of action. The air was thick with the scent of charred wood and old blood, a reminder that whatever had happened here had been swift and merciless.

  Greg’s keen eyes caught a set of footprints diverging from the others, lighter and more erratic, as if someone had fled in a hurry. The bandits' trails were more defined, grouped together in an organized march away from the wreckage. This lone set of footprints, however, stood apart.

  “Possible,” Greg mused, pointing toward the erratic tracks. “They seem to veer different from the other trails.”

  Trevor, his face still pale from exhaustion, nodded grimly. “If there’s a chance he got away, we should check it out. Could be Vannis, could be someone else.”

  Greg took the lead, following the faint tracks into the deeper woods. The night air had grown eerily still, as if the forest itself held its breath, watching their movements. The footprints led them through uneven terrain, a rocky incline rising ahead of them. At its base, partially obscured by a bush, a discarded pack rested, its straps frayed as if torn off in haste.

  Greg paused, motioning for Trevor to stay low as he crouched beside the pack. He ran his fingers along the worn leather, then carefully unfastened it. Inside, he found a half-full waterskin, a small bundle of dry rations, and a crumpled piece of parchment. The latter caught his attention.

  “Could be our guy’s,” Trevor murmured. “The blood back there suggests he was hurt. Might explain why he dropped this.”

  Greg unfolded the parchment, the ink smudged but still legible:

  If you are reading this, I am likely dead. The Claw hunts me. I fear I have led them to our camp.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  If they take the ledger, Vannis’ enemies will have their proof. They cannot have it. I will hide it where I can.

  Tell Vannis—

  The message ended abruptly, as if the writer had been interrupted.

  Trevor cursed under his breath. “A ledger? Sounds like this wasn’t just a random hit.”

  Greg, his expression unreadable, pocketed the parchment. “Seems like your boss has a few more problems than just bandits.”

  Trevor’s gaze flickered toward him, wary. “You don’t seem all that surprised.”

  Greg shrugged. “I’m just a merc. People with money always have problems.”

  Before they could discuss further, a rustle in the brush drew their attention. Instinctively, Greg’s grip on his greataxe tightened. Someone was nearby—watching. He exchanged a glance with Trevor and, instead of reaching for his weapon, made a show of pointing at the tracks, raising his voice just enough.

  “Well, I wasn’t lying about the other set of tracks,” he said casually, gesturing toward the ground. “Seems like someone was in this underbrush, too.”

  A tense pause followed before a voice—low, measured—cut through the silence.

  “You’re sharper than I expected.”

  From the shadows, a figure emerged—a woman clad in dark leathers, her auburn hair barely visible beneath her hood. A longbow rested in her grip, though it remained undrawn. Greg’s trained eyes flickered over her features, noting the slight elongation of her canines, the sharpness of her golden eyes.

  A shifter.

  She smirked slightly at their guarded stances. “No need to make this ugly. I’m after the same man you are.”

  Trevor tensed beside Greg. “And who exactly are you?”

  The woman tilted her head, considering them before finally lowering her hood. “Sienna.” She gave a slow, measured nod toward the tracks. “Let’s just say I have my own reasons for hunting Vannis down.”

  Greg studied her carefully. He had met shifters before in his mercenary work—quick-footed, perceptive, and unpredictable. This one carried herself with a confident ease, as if she had already weighed them as threats and found them lacking. He let a slow smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

  “Well,” he mused, “this Vannis fellow is certainly popular tonight.”

  Sienna raised an eyebrow. “Seems that way. Which begs the question—what exactly do you plan to do when you find him?”

  Greg glanced at Trevor, then back to her. “Me? I’m just hoping to pull in some coin. You may not believe me, but I really did just stumble into this mess after finding this one half-mauled by an undead wolf.”

  She let out a quiet huff, as if amused despite herself. “At least you’re honest.”

  Trevor, less entertained by the exchange, cut in. “We need to move. The longer we stand here chatting, the colder the trail gets.”

  Greg nodded. “Agreed. Sienna, you seem like you know your way around a trail. Care to help?”

  She smirked. “You’re not the first warrior to admit they’re bad at tracking.” With that, she crouched beside the faint footprints, tracing them with her fingers. “Alright. Let’s see where this rabbit hole leads.”

  Together, the newly formed trio pressed deeper into the night, the forest swallowing their presence as they tracked the ever-elusive Vannis.

  * * *

  Greg, Trevor, and their newfound ally Sienna moved carefully through the forest, following an unusual footpath that seemed less traveled but still led with purpose. The night had fully set in, the only light filtering through the dense canopy above coming from the sliver of moon and faint glow of the stars. Their steps were measured, silent except for the occasional rustling of leaves beneath their boots.

  Sienna took the lead, her sharp eyes scanning the terrain for any sign of disturbance. Her tracking skills far exceeded Greg’s, and he was more than happy to let her take point. Trevor, still nursing his wounds from earlier, kept a watchful eye on their rear, his grip firm around the hilt of his sword.

  After some time, the trees opened up into a clearing, and the trio stopped in their tracks. Before them stood an enormous, lifeless tree—its bark blackened and cracked, devoid of any leaves. Around its massive roots, the land looked disturbed, as though something had been unearthed or buried.

  Greg’s nostrils flared as he took in the scene. The air here was different—thick, almost suffocating, laced with a pungent, unnatural decay. Then he saw them.

  Scattered throughout the clearing were humanoid figures, standing unnaturally still, their forms barely shifting in the dim light. The undead. Their hollow eyes seemed to stare into nothingness, as if waiting for something.

  Sienna muttered a curse under her breath. "We need to move—now."

  Greg didn’t need convincing. "Agreed. We’re not equipped for this." He gestured for them to back away, keeping low as they slowly retreated.

  As they turned to leave, Sienna’s keen eyes caught something in the distance. Beyond the undead, hidden among the tree line, shadowy figures lurked, barely visible. They weren’t undead—no, these figures moved with purpose, watching. Waiting.

  Sienna nudged Greg. "We’re not the only ones spying. Someone else is watching those things."

  Greg frowned. "Bandits? Or worse?"

  "Hard to say. But I don’t want to be here when they decide to act."

  With that, they quickly and quietly made their way back toward the fork in the road, choosing a different trail—one that was lighter, more erratic, but showed signs of a single person having moved through it in a hurry.

  * * *

  The path led them deeper into the woods, where the oppressive silence was replaced by the distant crackling of a small fire. Greg motioned for the group to slow down as he scanned ahead. Through the trees, he could make out a faint glow—a makeshift camp.

  "Could be our guy," Greg muttered, glancing at Trevor.

  Trevor nodded. "Or another survivor. Either way, we should be careful."

  Sienna, ever the cautious one, suggested, "Let’s observe for a moment before we walk into something we regret."

  Greg, however, had another idea. Settling onto the ground, he shut his eyes and began a quiet chant, calling upon the primal spirits of the wild. His voice took on an odd, rhythmic quality, foreign yet oddly soothing. Trevor and Sienna watched in silent confusion as a small field mouse emerged from the underbrush, its tiny nose twitching curiously at Greg.

  "You smell... big. Not food. What do you want, big not-food?" the mouse chattered.

  Greg opened one eye and gave the creature a small nod. "The camp ahead—who’s in it?"

  The mouse twitched its whiskers. "Big one. Alone. Smells of sweat, fear. Moves slow, like hurt. Eats food, but not much. Sleeps in turns, wakes fast." It sniffed the air, then added, "Many big ones walked here before. Some never left."

  Greg thanked the little creature, offering a small crumb of ration in return. Then, shifting back to Common, he relayed the information. "Sounds like a lone survivor. If it’s not Vannis, it’s at least someone who might know what happened."

  Trevor’s brows furrowed. "Could be one of our caravan. If he’s injured, he might not be thinking straight."

  Sienna nodded. "Then we need to approach carefully. If he’s jumpy, we don’t want to scare him into doing something reckless."

  Greg led the approach, stepping into the dim firelight first, his large form casting a long shadow over the injured man hunched near the flames. He was huddled up and clutching a quarterstaff close as though it were a baby. The man reacted instantly when he finally noticed the half-orc's presence.

  "Stay back!" he croaked, voice raw from exhaustion, a spark of flame ignites from the camp's small fire pit as if a warning.

  Trevor stepped forward. "Aren? Is that you?"

  The man’s eyes widened as he recognized the voice. "Trevor? By the gods… you're alive?" His posture eased slightly, though his grip on his staff remained tight. His gaze flicked to Greg and Sienna. "Who they," he asks in gasps.

  Greg flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but to most, it likely looked more like a grimace. "Greg. Just your friendly neighborhood half-orc mercenary. Wrong place, right time."

  Sienna gave a curt nod. "Sienna. Tracker."

  Aren exhaled and relaxed slightly. "Damn… thought I was done for out here." He rubbed a hand over his face, glancing at Trevor. "How many of us made it?"

  Trevor shook his head grimly. "Not enough. The caravan’s gone. Most were either cut down or taken. We were tracking Vannis, hoping to find some answers."

  Aren cursed under his breath. "Figures. The bastard was near the front when everything went to hell. If he got grabbed, they’d be holding him somewhere."

  Greg crossed his arms. "We passed a clearing—a dead tree surrounded by undead. You know anything about that?"

  Aren visibly paled. "No. Sounds bad though. The caravan had a few mages, like myself… none too strong, but enough to put up wards. If the dead are gathering like that, then something’s feeding it."

  Sienna’s expression darkened. "Then we’re dealing with more than just a random bandit raid."

  Aren nodded grimly. "Bandits didn’t just kill—some of our people got taken. If Vannis is alive, he’s probably with them. And if we want him back, we’re going to have to move fast."

  Greg looked between the three of them, then at the darkened woods beyond. The weight of the situation was settling in fast.

  "Let’s take a rest first," he said. "We’ll need our strength for whatever comes next."

  With quiet murmurs of agreement, they settled in. The night stretched on, the forest watching in silence as they prepared for the fight ahead.

  Chapter 3: The Bandit Path

  The forest remained eerily silent as Greg and his companions followed the bandit trail deeper into the woods. The path was well-trodden, signs of boot prints and wagon tracks confirming this was no mere hunting trail—it was a supply route, leading straight to their enemy’s camp. Each step was taken with deliberate care, their movements shrouded in darkness, the only sounds being the rustling of leaves beneath their boots and the distant chirping of crickets.

  Greg took point, his eyes scanning the undergrowth while his ears stayed sharp for any signs of movement ahead. Behind him, Trevor followed with his spear at the ready, his posture light and nimble. Sienna, the most experienced tracker among them, took a position just behind Greg, guiding them forward with the keen instincts of a seasoned ranger. Aren, still recovering from his previous injuries, moved cautiously, gripping his quarterstaff tightly.

  After some time, a faint glow flickered through the trees. Sienna raised a hand, signaling the group to halt. Greg crouched beside her, peering past a thicket to observe the scene before them. The bandit camp was modest in size, consisting of several makeshift tents, a wagon parked near the center, and a campfire around which a few bandits conversed in hushed tones. A wooden cage sat partially obscured by one of the tents, inside of which a bound and slumped figure lay motionless.

  Greg grumbled through a gritted jaw. "If that isn't Vannis." His words a low complaint.

  Trevor squinted at the cage. "Could be. Either way, we won’t know until we get closer."

  Sienna shifted beside them, scanning the layout. "Three visible guards. Could be more inside the tents. We need a plan."

  Greg considered their options. Charging in headfirst would be reckless. They needed a distraction—something to split the bandits’ attention and give them an opening.

  "Fire." Greg’s voice was a low rumble. "If we set the tents ablaze, they’ll be too busy dealing with that to stop us," and he hands the ranger one of his last remaining torches if needed.

  Sienna smirked. "I can manage that. Just need the right angle."

  Trevor cracked his knuckles. "We’ll wait for your signal and take out whoever’s left."

  Greg nodded. "Sienna, get into position. The rest of us will move in slow. Once the flames start, we strike hard and fast."

  With the plan set, Sienna broke away, disappearing into the undergrowth with practiced ease. Greg motioned for Trevor and Aren to follow as they crept closer, staying low as they maneuvered into position. The minutes stretched into eternity as they waited for the first strike. Then—

  Thwack.

  A fire-tipped arrow streaked through the night, striking one of the tents. Within seconds, flames spread along the fabric, licking up the sides and casting an orange glow across the camp.

  “What the hell?!” a bandit shouted, scrambling to his feet.

  Another arrow flew, embedding itself in a second tent, setting it ablaze.

  Panic erupted as bandits abandoned their posts to put out the growing fires. Greg wasted no time. He motioned for Trevor and Aren to move in, each targeting the nearest armed foe while he bore down on a wiry bandit still fumbling for his weapon.

  The first bandit barely had time to react before Greg’s greataxe came down in a vicious arc. The strike was clean, severing the man’s cry before it could leave his throat. As his body crumpled to the dirt, Greg turned to see Trevor driving his spear into the other bandit’s ribs, while Aren delivered a crushing blow to his head in a combination attack.

  The camp was in utter chaos. Some bandits still fought the flames, while others scrambled to arm themselves. Greg spotted one sprinting toward a nearby tent. But before he could give proper chase, the twang of bowstring, and a ding of an arrow found its mark in the bandit’s shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. Greg rushed in before he could recover, burying his greataxe deep into the man’s torso.

  The way to the prisoner’s cage was now open. Trevor and Aren moved quickly, cutting through the bindings and helping Vannis to his feet. The merchant lord coughed, weak but alive.

  "We need to leave. Now." Greg’s eyes flicked back to the camp. The fires were spreading, illuminating the surrounding forest. Bandits shouted, trying to organize a defense. They wouldn’t have too much time before they managed to properly regroup.

  "Out, back of the tent," Greg ordered. "We slip into the trees and put distance between us before they regroup."

  Vannis stumbled as he tried to walk, his strength spent from captivity. Without hesitation, Greg hoisted him over one shoulder. "Move."

  Trevor and Aren flanked Greg, ensuring no threats closed in on them. Sienna joined them from the cover of darkness a moment later.

  Smoke and embers filled the air as they vanished into the treeline. Behind them, the bandit camp burned.

  They had succeeded. But the night was far from over.

  During the gameplay, this scene had me rolling at the time.